


First Night

by lwise2019



Series: Mikkel's Story [2]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 12:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lwise2019/pseuds/lwise2019
Summary: Mikkel Madsen's first night with the team in the Silent World.
Series: Mikkel's Story [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536739
Kudos: 15





	First Night

Mikkel Madsen was annoyed. He stared forward across the tank at the tiny lights on the dashboard and was annoyed.

Above him, mere centimeters above his broad shoulders, was Tuuri Hotakainen's bunk. Tuuri, twenty-one, was short even for a woman, the shortest of all of them, and a bit overweight. Her hair, ash-blonde, was cut short around the sides but had some wave to it where it lay on top, and her eyes were a blue so pale as to appear silver. While she did not snore, he could hear a quiet buzzing of breath and occasional movements. He was annoyed at her not for those noises, but simply for her presence. She was not immune! Unlike Mikkel and the others, she was vulnerable to the Rash which had exterminated human life on the mainland. What could have possessed her to volunteer for this project, and what could have possessed her sponsor to accept her? She was so vulnerable that she required an escort even to go outside to relieve herself. Sigrun had done the honors that evening, but when she was busy, one of the men would have to do it, and Mikkel had the dreary certainty that the man in question would be himself.

Granted, she was a linguist. In addition to her native Finnish, she spoke both Icelandic and Swedish, though with a heavy accent that was unsurprising given that she had never met a native speaker of any Scandinavian language until a few days earlier. She also read, though of course didn't speak, two of the common dead languages, English and Deutsch. That would be useful in their quest for books, since Mikkel didn't read those languages.

She was also their mechanic, and supposedly quite a good one. Her file described her as having “a mage's touch with machinery”, which he presumed was a translation of some Finnish exaggeration. She was also their only driver, though not a very good one from the day's experience. He hoped she would improve. She would _have to_ improve, as the collapse of the Øresund bridge meant they were now trapped in the Silent World for who knew how long until a rescue could be organized. Also, besides her driving, they really needed her as the only one who could communicate with their scout, her cousin Lalli Hotakainen.

Lalli was taller than Tuuri but still quite short; Mikkel topped him by a head. He was slender, with long, wiry arms and legs; his face, unlike his cousin's, was narrow and tapered to his chin and his eyes were violet. Like his cousin, he had ash-blond hair, but it was very straight and longer than hers. It was also a tousled mess and Mikkel wanted to take him aside and comb it for him, as he would for a young sibling or cousin. But at nineteen, Lalli was no child; moreover, he was no kin of Mikkel and they had no language in common. The older man would have to put up with looking at the scout's hair as it was.

Mikkel was annoyed with Lalli too. On reading the scout's file, he had seen that Lalli's only listed language was Finnish. He had assumed – and more fool he! – that the notation meant that Finnish was his only fluent language, but that he understood basic Swedish or Icelandic. Surely his cousin would have taught him a bit, and _surely_ his sponsor wouldn't have allowed him into a team with which he couldn't communicate! But here he was, and Tuuri had innocently agreed that he did not speak or understand a single word of any language but Finnish.

Furthermore, he had been dramatically motion-sick in the tank, vomiting out a window until he was down to dry heaves and passed out in a miserable ball in the nearest bunk. But there was nothing at all in any file about motion-sickness! Having an eidetic memory, Mikkel had reviewed every file related to the project while lying sleepless in his bunk, and had confirmed that he had not missed any reference. If he'd known he'd have gone to his mother and her very well-stocked herbal pharmacy. She'd have had something as an anti-emetic, he knew. But he hadn't, and there was nothing anti-emetic in the first aid kit he'd been provided. Lalli would simply have to suffer when riding in the tank.

Lalli wasn't in the tank now, however. He was running around in the monster-infested darkness, scouting their route at Sigrun's insistence and, Mikkel suspected, as an escape from the tank and its associated misery.

Sigrun Eide was sleeping in the top bunk above Tuuri. Sigrun, thirty-two, was very tall for a woman, perhaps ten centimeters shorter than Mikkel himself, slender, red-headed, fair-skinned without the freckles that red-heads often have, with dark violet eyes. Her hair was cut short, not even reaching her shoulders, but was wavy enough to flare out around her face. Daughter and granddaughter of troll-hunters, she had grown up in the same close-knit Norwegian community as General Trond Andersen who had recruited both her and Mikkel. She addressed him as “Uncle Trond”, and Mikkel regarded her as the General's kin though the records did not reflect this.

Sleeping, Sigrun breathed even more quietly than the other woman, but Mikkel was annoyed at her too. In the original plan for this expedition, they'd needed to move out and start scavenging immediately as they had only two weeks before they needed to head back to the base. With the collapse of the Øresund bridge, that plan should have been discarded and they should have stopped for a day to communicate with the sponsors and figure out a new plan for rescue. Instead, Sigrun had proceeded with the original plan, sending out their scout immediately to find a good route through the remains of civilization in search of books to scavenge.

Mikkel hoped he could persuade her to work on a plan for rescue, or at least let him work on it, but – this was one of the matters annoying him – though they'd gotten along well earlier, yet ever since the bridge collapse she had disregarded his suggestions, ignored him, even talked over him when he tried to suggest a plan of action. He wasn't hurt by this – not at all hurt – but he was annoyed. He was, after all, the only person on the team, and one of the few now living, who had ever been here before. He did know where some supply caches might still be, though what condition they'd be in ten years after the disaster that had annihilated the army … well, perhaps that wasn't entirely useful.

Perhaps she had read his file, if not the others, or the General had told her something of his history of insubordination and practical jokes. Being fair about it in the dark night, he had to admit that she did have some reason to view his contributions as of dubious value. Given that they were now trapped together until rescue could be arranged, which might take weeks or even months, he would have to prove himself more reliable. Come to think of it, that meant he needed to bring an end to the prank he was playing on Emil.

Emil Västerström snored. The Swedish Cleanser, nineteen, had straight blond hair, perfectly clean and shining with brushing, that fell in a mane to his shoulders, and bright blue eyes. He was as short as Lalli and more sturdily built. Sleeping on the bottom bunk along the other wall, perpendicular to Mikkel's bunk, he'd at least arranged himself with his head as far from the others as was possible in such close quarters. Mikkel wasn't annoyed at the snoring, as sleeping in the family bunkhouse with siblings and cousins, or in a tent with half a dozen soldiers, had inured him to such noises in the night, and Emil wasn't even very loud compared to some he'd heard. He was annoyed rather at Emil for putting him in an awkward position before they even met.

> Mikkel watched with Sigrun and the General as the small group of travellers congregated on the walkway above. The blond, Emil, was saying something to the short woman and behind him, Mikkel could see a couple of his friends, former soldiers who'd stayed on as laborers on the base, stiffen with anger.
> 
> As the travellers made their way down the ramp, the laborers followed with obvious hostile intent. Sighing quietly, Mikkel flashed them an army signal: “Leave this to me”. Both glared at him but backed off, just watching for now. Clearly Emil had said something offensive so Mikkel thought a prank would be an acceptable response. But what prank? He considered this while meeting the team, as the laborers trailed along after the team, signalling “Hurry up” once or twice.
> 
> The team found their tank and time was running out. He had to do something or lose face before his friends and he thought he'd found a good prank. It appeared Emil had offended someone else earlier and been beaten for his pains, so Mikkel thought he could make use of the young man's facial bruises for his prank. His initial efforts failed due to the language barrier as Emil spoke only Swedish, but the young man came back to him, the medic, at almost the last moment, worried that his pretty face would suffer a scar.
> 
> At last! Mikkel solemnly expressed his concern that the bruises might lead to “face cancer”. The prank almost failed again because Emil didn't understand him, but the word “cancer” was clear enough. Emil hastily agreed to whatever treatment was offered, so Mikkel fixed him up with a ludicrous bandage that made him look like one who had barely survived a grossling attack.
> 
> Glancing over at the laborers still hovering nearby, Mikkel got a hastily concealed grin and a quick thumbs-up. There was a tense moment when Admiral Olsen almost gave the game away as he recognized not only Mikkel but the “face cancer” prank he'd pulled before, but fortunately Emil couldn't follow the Danish shouting.

Mikkel sighed softly in the darkness. Pulling a prank on a teammate was not the best way to have started this project. In the morning he'd have to put an end to it.

Mikkel was annoyed with himself as well. What was he doing here with this crowd of strangers? What was he doing _here_ anyway, when it was only by chance that his body hadn't been moldering away here for the past ten years? Sure, he'd been without a job since Summer, and he'd been bored with supervising his nieces and nephews and caring for the livestock, but still ... there were plenty of other jobs he could have found on Bornholm or even the Öresund base. (Well, perhaps not the Öresund base. It seemed that Admiral Olsen remembered him from the previous visit.)

Why come here, to deserted Denmark, deserted for nine long decades since the Rash had swept through and destroyed the Old World? Why risk his life just to look for books that had probably rotted away in the decades of neglect? What did he care if no one _ever_ explored the mainland again?

Ah, but the General had offered the job, assuring him that there'd be a good salary and bonuses enough that he could seriously consider purchasing the Pedersen farm close to the Madsen farm, allowing him to consider marriage and children. And the General had never steered him wrong.

> Mikkel stood at the railing, gazing out to sea. Far over the horizon was Bornholm, to which he'd be returning on the supply ship's next run.
> 
> “Mikkel Madsen?” came a voice behind his right shoulder. 
> 
> “I'm Madsen,” he answering briefly, turning despite his reluctance to interact with anyone. He swiftly assessed the small man behind him: Norwegian army uniform with a general's insignia, wearer balding and probably in his late forties or fifties. Mikkel straightened automatically, but stopped himself from coming to attention as the man was not in his chain of command.
> 
> “I'm General Trond Andersen. I understand you've been broken down to private and are being shipped back to Bornholm.”
> 
> Mikkel simply stared for a moment in disbelief, then turned back to look out to sea. He didn't want to discuss this with anyone, and certainly not a random Norwegian, general or not.
> 
> “Well, now, you could go back to Bornholm in disgrace and spend the next two years digging latrines and peeling potatoes. Or … you could agree to detached service. With me.”
> 
> Mikkel hesitated, but only for a moment. He turned.
> 
> He listened.
> 
> He agreed.

Some wealth and a good farm would be necessary for marriage, Mikkel believed, for without false modesty he considered himself unattractive. At near two meters tall (six foot four in the old measures forgotten since the Rash came) and powerfully built, he tended to intimidate rather than attract. His face — broad and ruddy with a twice-broken nose and eyes of a dark indeterminate color that could appear grayish, greenish, bluish, or even brown — was far from classically handsome though surrounded by the hair that was his one good feature, being thick but not coarse, falling straight to his ears and wavy from there to his shoulders, a deep, dark blond that verged on chestnut. He had moreover magnificent sideburns which he kept neatly trimmed and combed. He was capable of growing an equally magnificent beard and mustache but the thought of hair in contact with food disgusted him and he kept himself clean-shaven with a pearl-handled cutthroat razor that he'd found in a little shop in Reykjavík.

He sighed again. Annoyance was a waste of time and energy. Whatever their reasons, however sensible or otherwise he considered them, they were all in the Silent World together and he would have to do everything in his power to keep them all alive until they could be rescued.

And he would.

He slept.


End file.
